My Dinner with Marshall
by tilleygirl
Summary: Written for IPS Exchange challenge.  Prompt is Marshall fixes Mary dinner, snark ensues.  Also doing double duty as a birthday gift for Roar526.  Enjoy!


Prompt:Marshall makes Mary dinner, snark ensues

My Dinner with Marshall

Mary let herself into Marshall's home, deftly balancing a six pack of Blue Moon beer in one hand, and a stack of DVDs, stealthily pilfered from her partner's home over the past few months, in the other. She shivered from the brisk chill in the air, glad to see that Marshall had laid a fire, the banked logs crackling merrily in the fireplace.

'Marshall?" she called out, letting the DVDs fall on the couch, before continuing on to the kitchen. She halted in the doorway, the sight that greeted her bringing a smirk to her face.

"Jesus, Nancy, who do you think you are, Julia Child?" Marshall turned around to greet her, the large chefs apron he wore covered in flour.

"Ah, but wait till you taste my better than sex cake." He affected a serviceable leer. Mary screwed up her nose at him and ambled over to the stove.

"No such thing," she mumbled as she passed her friend, depositing the beer on the table.

"Depends on the cake and the partner," Marshall rejoined, watching her lifting the lid off the dutch oven and peeking inside at the simmering contents.

"Do you even remember what a girl feels like...Oh my god, that smells wonderful." She stuck her head almost into the pot and breathed in the aroma of boeuf bourguignon. "All those times I've been over here and you've fed me pizza, when you can cook like this?" She pinned an accusatory eye on him, still tightly grasping the lid of the dutch oven.

Marshall wiped his hands on the apron, walked over to her and relieved her of the lid, settling it back in place over the stew.

"You're letting all the steam out. I didn't think your palate was sophisticated enough to appreciate my boeuf bourguignon." He returned her stare with raised eyebrows. "You once said you didn't want anything that couldn't be found in a mid-western diner. However, I wanted something a little more upscale for tonight."

"Wait, boof what?" Mary asked, squinting in confusion, ignoring his jab. Her eyes took in the Kiss the Chef embroidery sprawling across the wide expanse of Marshall's chest.

"Boeuf bourguignon. It's a French beef stew. A traditional dish." He took a step closer, and Mary automatically stepped back, her hips bumping up against the stove. A flicker of disappointment raced across Marshall's features as he reached around his blonde partner and picked up the bottle of red wine sitting on the stove. He added some to the stew and re-corking the bottle, set it back down.

"And yes, I remember what a girl feels like." He was standing too close to her, almost touching, and she felt the heat from the stove touch her back as the heat from Marshall's body warmed her cheeks. "Quite nice, as I recall." Her eyes darted to his hands. They were large; fine boned fingers that ended in neatly trimmed nails, a sprinkling of dark hair over the backs. She had a mental image of him touching a girl, those large hands gentle, but sure. The girl in her minds eye looked suspiciously like herself. Mary stared up at him, unaware of the hint of terror in her expression.

"It's only a suggestion," he said softly, "not a command." As Mary's expression changed to one of perplexion, he pointed to the front of his apron. Mary found her eyes drawn unwillingly to his chest again, and then up to his mouth and a faint flush crept up her cheeks. Ducking quickly around him, she gained the safety of the table.

"In your dreams, Doofus," she retorted.

Marshall smiled a little sadly. Turning back to the stove, he murmured to himself, "If you only knew."

Marshall returned to icing his cake, while Mary set the table. She opened a bottle of beer and set it on the counter for him, then retreated to her seat at the table. They chatted about the days events, discussed the hour that Stan had spent behind closed doors speaking with Eleanor and argued about whose turn it was to bring in coffee the next day.

Marshall set a salad on the table and stepped over to the stove, pulling out a crusty loaf of French bread. He set the bread on a cutting board and placed it on the table before returning to the stove to ladle out the stew into a big bowl. Another bottle of red Bordeaux was set on the table, the two candlesticks were lit and Marshall removed his apron. Pulling out her chair for her, Marshall gave a sweep of his arm, indicating she should sit down.

Mary tried to quell the smile playing about her lips, but was not entirely successful. She sat down and took a long look at her partner as he sat down at his own place across from her. He had gone all out for her tonight. It had been a casually issued invitation to come over for dinner. Something he had done many times before. Usually they just ordered in, occasionally Marshall would grill steaks, or make pasta. Everything was always very good, but this, this was different. What had prompted the elaborate meal?

Mary's brow furrowed slightly as she searched for ulterior motives. She placed her napkin on her lap and helped herself to some of the stew. Marshall cut off a chunk of bread and pushed the board towards her. Taking a bite of the aromatic stew, she froze, her mouth exploding in flavors, the tender beef melting on her tongue, She looked up at him with eyes like saucers.

"This is incredible Marshall. Almost as good as that goat." Marshall's eyebrows came together in confusion, but as Mary closed her eyes and an expression of ecstasy crossed her face, he refrained from asking about the goat and watched the play of emotions dance across her face. "So damn good," she murmured, running her tongue around her lips, before reaching for her glass of wine. She opened her eyes to find Marshall's intense blue eyes on her, a look on his face...

Mary's gaze sharpened. What the hell was he looking at her like that for? She'd seen that look before on plenty of other men. That look didn't belong on Marshall's face. Not when it was directed towards her.

Marshall realized the instant Mary clued in that something was up and schooled his features into a bland expression.

"You're comparing my boeuf bourguignon to a goat?" The question had a hint of reproach in it.

"You have no idea how good a goat's head that has been simmering for four days can be," she muttered, not meeting his eye. They continued their meal, discussing work, family, Marshall's plans for his yard in the spring. His sharp eyes noticed the absent rubbing of her ring finger that began with the goat comment and he compressed his lips. Something connected with Raph. His face darkened and he he stood up, clearing their plates. He placed the dishes in the sink and drew in a deep breath. Raph was history. Mary was unattached. Now was the time to make a move, before some other fucknut swept in and took her away from him. Men circled around Mary like moths to the flame. Marshall needed some kind of sign though, some minor hint, a tidbit of indication that Mary felt something for him beyond friendship.

He picked up the cake and brought it to the table. Mary stared at it expectantly.

"Better than sex, huh?" she questioned. "You've set yourself a pretty high standard there, pervus, because I've had some damn phenomenal sex." She looked up at him with a smirk, which quickly faded, taken aback to see him flush.

"I'm sure you have," he mumbled, "and my lowly cake will be hard put to compete." Marshall handed her the knife and turned back to retrieve the plates. Mary frowned, suddenly aware he may not have been talking about the cake. When he set the plates by the dessert and sat back down, Mary looked at him closely. A faint pink stain still colored his cheeks; he avoided her eyes, focusing on the cake set in front of her. The cake meant to top off the meal on which he had worked so hard, all to give her pleasure.

Mary cut into the cake, her lips tightening. They were going to have to talk soon. She had been putting off this day for a long time. An internal cringe gripped her stomach as the thought of Faber, and the impetus behind that fiasco, skidded across her brain. Marshall had tried to talk to her then and she had run, straight into the arms of the wrong man, hurting her best friend in the process. Silently passing a slice over to him, she absently picked up her fork and took a bite. Her eyes flew open wide and she stared at the cake. Eagerly taking another bite, she tried to savor the flavors, the rich chocolate, the caramel, the real whipped cream.

"Oh my god Marshall, this is fantastic!" She looked over at him, pleased to see the look of pleasure on his face. "I'll grant you this much, it's better than _some _sex I've had." She looked at him speculatively. "Not all though. What about you? Does your cake rank better than the sex you've had?"

Marshall fiddled with his fork, yet to take a bite of the cake. How to answer that question, to get her to understand? Silence extended between them.

"Please tell me you've been laid," she said, sitting back and eying him.

"Yes." He wasn't going to play. For a moment Mary thought he wasn't going to elaborate at all. She drew a breath in and opened her mouth.

"It's about the emotions for me," he said pre-empting her next strike, "I don't have sex just for the physical aspect. I care about the woman. Not every time is going to produce fireworks, but the emotions are always there. I always care, even if my world doesn't rock. So I can't compare it to cake."

Mary looked at him in confusion. This was obviously hurting him. "Well, good to know you're not a 40 year old virgin," she tossed off, trying to lighten the mood.

"Has it ever been about the emotions for you?" He ignored her comment entirely. The question was low, tremulous almost. Mary had a snarky response ready, but bit back the words at the pained expression in his eyes. He looked her full in the face. "Have you _ever_ been emotionally invested in any of the men you've been with?"

Mary put down her fork, suddenly aware of the ticking of the clock over the sink. She watched a line of wax slowly trickle down the length of the candlestick, a tiny horizontal mountain created from each successive trickle.

"I loved Raph," she said quietly, "in my own way." Her eyes focused on his.

"But were you emotionally invested in him?" Marshall pressed the question. "Did you consider him, how he would feel, before you did something? Before you said something? Was he always at the edge of your thoughts?" Mary tilted her head, considering the question, knowing the answer.

"Marshall, the only man, outside of my father, that I have ever been emotionally invested in, is you." She paused. "You know that," she said, somewhat reproachfully.

She looked down at her hands, nails once again bitten to the quick. A childhood habit she had never been able to shake. "I don't want to screw up our friendship. It's the only one I have."

Tension was a low undercurrent across the table between them. Ebbing and flowing. Swirling around some obstacles, flowing over others. Marshall compressed his lips, assessing the downturned blonde head. Hiding. Hiding her face, hiding her emotions. From him. But he had seen the fear sprint across her eye, had heard the tremor in her voice. The one thing that Mary Shannon feared more than anything else in the world, was losing Marshall Mann as her best friend.

The tired lawman reached across the table and loosely intertwined his fingers with hers. "Friendship and love are not mutually exclusive, Mary. You don't have to make a choice. I will always be your friend. You don't have to worry about losing that. It could be so much more though." His thumb started a light stroking against hers. "I'm not going to push Mary. I'm also not going to wait forever."

Green eyes darted up to meet blue ones. "I don't want to hurt you," she mumbled. The half finished slice of cake sat on her plate, it's abandonment testament to how seriously she was taking this conversation.

Marshall regarded her a moment, then gently lifted her chin up with one long finger, forcing her gaze to his. "_This_," he emphasized the word, "is hurting me. This limbo. I think it is well established that we care for each other. Our friendship is solid. I want more. You know I want more. You want..." He trailed off. It was one of the few times in recent years, that he truly didn't know what she wanted. "You want to keep the status quo," he continued, feeling his way through his words, "to maintain the friendship, to keep me on a leash so I don't stray, but to never let me close." Color flared in her cheeks, but she was held by the intensity of his eyes, the firmness of his grasp on her chin.

"You want to never hear the words from me," he said, insight striking like lightening. "You don't want to hear what you know to be fact. Because if the words are not spoken, you can continue to deny the fact." Again fear flashed in her eyes.

"Marshall," she began, warning clear in her tone.

"I love you Mary Shannon." The words fell into the pool of emotion rising between them. "You don't have to do anything with that. Not right away. It's the fact though. And consider this, Mary." He paused, trying not to feel hurt by the flinch at his declaration. "My love for you as a friend is stronger than my love for you on any other level. It has kept me by your side for seven years. I need you to think about that. And I expect an answer. I won't let this one... slide." His fingers slid down her neck as he spoke.

Mary's breath caught on the sensation of the rough pads of his fingertips tracing down the long line of her neck to rest on her shoulder, thumb resting on her pulse. Mary felt that pulse quicken and cast around desperately for something to distract her.

"What were those other women like? The ones you had sex with?" The question blurted out before any filter was applied. The pressure of his fingers resting on her shoulder increased the slightest amount.

"I didn't have sex with them," he said, an odd look on his face.

"Ha! I knew it! You **are** a 40 year old virgin!" There was a tone of triumph Marshall didn't care for in her exclamation. He leaned in closer to her.

"I made love to them," he said softly, exhaled breath caressing her face, gripping fingers flexing on her shoulder, intense eyes boring into her soul. His tone conveyed how large of a difference there was between the two. Mary unwillingly found herself focusing on his lips, traitorous thoughts of what it would feel like to kiss him running through her mind. What it would feel like to have his hands on her, skimming her body. What it would feel like to be held in the circle of his arms, pulled against his chest. What it would feel like to have him make love to her. Make love, not have sex. She considered the slim, but solid build of him, not an ounce of superfluous fat; the nimble, agile fingers that could be so tender; the essential goodness of him. Tried to envision all that poured into his lovemaking. Slow, thorough, erotic, gentle. Mary felt faint. He loved her. What was she going to do with that? He loved her and he wanted to touch her, to do those things that were popping, unbidden, into her mind.

She heard the whoosh of noise filling her ears like a distant ringing and quickly pulled back, bending over and putting her head between her legs. Her breathing was rapid, she broke out in a cold sweat. Marshall quickly came around the table to her and knelt by her chair, one hand on her back to steady her, the other gripping her knee. Mary felt oddly comforted by the contact of his large hand splayed across her back. She squeezed her eyes shut. Small internal sigh of relief. The images were gone. A series of snapshots had flashed across her mind: her and Marshall rolling around naked on his bed, Marshall tenderly cupping her swollen belly, walking in the park with two small blonde children in tow..

Mary knew without a shadow of a doubt, those were scenes from her future, if she were only brave enough to accept it. She dimly became aware of Marshall still kneeling beside her, an aura of concern emanating from him. He gripped her arm with one hand and slid his other arm around her waist, lifting her to her feet.

"Come on, let's get you to the couch," he said, trying to lead her to the living room. Mary resisted and he sighed, turned and unceremoniously swung her up in her arms. He held her close to his chest and deposited her a few strides later, onto his sofa. "Lie down," he said softly. Mary did so unhappily, as Marshall placed the back of his hand on her forehead, then her cheek.

"No fever. Want to tell me what that was about?" The question was tinged with concern, but was also piqued with curiosity. Mary remained silent. "'Because I'm going to think it was the thought of my sexual prowess did this to you otherwise," he drawled, taken aback as her eyes flew to his. Marshall paled as he realized that while it wasn't prowess, it was something related to the thought of a sexual relationship between them. What could possibly cause Mary Shannon, of all people, to almost faint at the thought of sex?

Her eyes were downcast again, the blood returning to her head in her reclined position. She stiffened as she felt him, this man who had the ability to scare the shit out of her, slowly start to stroke her cheek.

"Is it such a scary thing, Mary? The thought of loving me? Of letting me love you?" The sweeping light pressure of his finger on her face was hypnotic. Her head turned and she caught his gaze, stared at him for an eternity as the fire crackled down to glowing embers. She noticed the fine lines that had developed around his eyes, that crinkled when he laughed. She noticed the dark shadow of stubble on his jaw. She was aware of his Adam's apple bobbing. She recognized the kindness in his eyes. Kindness, affection, love.

"Yes," she finally whispered. His fingers stilled, resting lightly on her check. Mary reached up and grasped his hand, slowly pulling it down to rest on her belly. "It does scare me. Terrifies me. For so many reasons. But I'm not a coward Marshall. I'm going to try to stop running. That's not to say I won't go for the occasional speed walk and you may need to hold onto the back of my shirt at times, but I am going to stop running away from you. Or at least lower the speed at which I'm moving." She favored him with a weak smile.

"Are you saying you may let me catch you?" he asked, amusement in his tone, underlaid with hope.

Mary awkwardly hitched herself up into a sitting position. She glanced back into the kitchen and jerked her head backwards. "Think I have a piece of unfinished cake in there. Hate for it to go to waste. Instead of 'better than sex', right now it's just 'better than foreplay'." She was rewarded with a smile that lit up her partner's face. He leaned in to place his mouth close to her ear.

"You want to put that one to the test?"

The End


End file.
